10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 82: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

re back ee on ben. ae else at the window. He felt the keen gaze of Doctor as Blake, staring across the room, over the rim of his glass. He knew there were fine lines of bleak curiosity on Blake’s forehead. Neither Blake nor Pendleton knew of the hold Brockton had over their host, Ingham, a hold that gave him entrance to Ingham’s home whenever he felt so inclined. They found their places around the table. Mrs. Hankin, Ingham’s only ‘Servant, came in with a loaded tray. Doctor Blake, shaking out his nap- kin, observed: “Too bad about old Mrs. Denton.” “Died rather suddenly, didn’t she?” inquired Ingham. ~ “Pneumonia—went like that,” Doc- tor Blake snapped his fingers, then Jooked at Brockton. “By the way, aren’t you connected with the insur- ‘ance company that had a policy on her? Seems to me her daughter said something—” ~“Tndependent Mutual,” supplied Brockton tersely. “Yes, I’m their cashier. As a matter of fact, one of the reasons I came down here this week-end was to get the death papers filled out on Mrs. Denton.” His hand = slipped unconsciously under his coat to see if the papers were all right. INNER dragged to an end at last. Brockton wondered how he had been able to keep his nerves in hand. He’d come near bending his dessert spoon in a powerful hand that tensed and shook as he tried to finish his meal calmly. To Brockton, with mur- _ der in his heart, there was entirely too much good fellowship among = ; these three. He not only felt out of place socially but entirely out of tune with them in every other way. This, - eoupled with the fact that one of _ them was to be his victim, combined to grind his nerves to a fine edge. They rose and separated, to meet as - later in the library for pinochle. Brockton saw Pendleton head for the af irway. ‘He ECW: the others his desire to take his medicine in would not follow, tactfully respecting | private. Ingham passed down the hall to- ward the library. He was alone. Brockton caught up with him, grasped his arm. “Look here, Ingham,” he mouthed softly. “I’m nine thousand behind in my accounts at Independent Mutual. You’ve got to come across. I—” “Brockton,” said Ingham, an in- describable loathing in his tones, “vou’ve blackmailed me for that Westervale deal for the last time. I was a foo] to ever get started on that tack with you. Now, you’ve bled me dry. I’ve no more money. Go ahead, expose me.” Brockton’s sinuous fingers sank into the fleshy part of Ingham’s fore- arm. “One thing you don’t do is lie, Ingham. You’re probably dry like you say. But if you get money, you’re coming across, see? For instance, if Pendleton’s heart should give out— and he’s old enough—you’ll reap twenty grand, with no questions. Get me?” Brockton could see the utter con- tempt in Ingham’s eyes. His fingers loosened. They stared at one another for a moment. Then Ingham swung round abruptly and stalked into the library. Brockton shrugged, grinned ma- levolently in the dark. He stepped out onto the veranda where he paused long enough to make a show of light- ing a cigarette. He took a deep drag and dropped the butt, grinding it out under his heel. His jaw hardened. The moment had arrived. Assured that no one had observed him, he slipped off the veranda, sped lightly around to where his car was- parked. He extracted a heavy tire iron from under the front seat and ran up the back steps of the house, his heart hammering, his breath break- ing from his throat with a peculiar rasping sound. The kitchen was in darkness, for Mrs. Hankin had been told to leave